


the words you left

by kitseybarbours



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Angry Sex, Angst, Crying, Guilt, Hate Sex, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Overstimulation, Past Sasha James/Tim Stoker, Rough Sex, Suicidal Thoughts, The Magnus Archives Season 3, Trans Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Trans Male Character, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, cis tim stoker
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-11
Updated: 2020-09-11
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:47:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26398144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kitseybarbours/pseuds/kitseybarbours
Summary: Tim and Jon are trying to cope.
Relationships: Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist/Tim Stoker
Comments: 8
Kudos: 75





	the words you left

**Author's Note:**

> Jon is a trans man, and the words used for his genitalia are 'cunt' and 'clit.' Regarding the 'suicidal thoughts' tag: Jon very briefly, and in no explicit detail, wishes he was dead instead of Sasha.

* * *

‘Say it,’ Tim snarls, snapping his hips into Jon’s. ‘Fucking _say it.’_

‘It’s my fault,’ Jon gasps out. ‘All of it, I did this, it’s all my fault.’

‘What’s _this?_ What’s your fault, Jon? Tell me,’ Tim demands. He’s on top of Jon, pinning his small frame to the bed, and his breath is harsh and hot on Jon’s neck as he fucks into him, refusing to look him in the eyes.

‘L-Leitner,’ Jon chokes, even though he knows it’s not true, he didn’t do it. None of the others believe him; soon enough he might give up believing himself. ‘And, and Melanie. She’s stuck here, and so are you, and—and Martin, and it’s because of me, it’s my fault, I—’

He breaks off, tears squeezing from his eyes. Tim’s cock feels impossible inside him; he’s tight, he’s inexperienced, he was in no way prepared for this. He asked for it anyway.

‘What else?’ Tim hisses. ‘There’s more. You know there’s more.’

‘S-Sasha,’ Jon gasps, and cries out when Tim sinks his teeth into the tender skin of his neck. This is the worst, his severest transgression, and Tim will not let him forget it.

‘Sasha,’ Tim repeats, his voice low and savage in Jon’s ear. ‘Sasha. She’s gone because of you. You _killed her,_ Jon, and she’s never coming back.’ His hips stutter, his breath hitches, for a moment it seems he will stop; and then he drives hard into Jon’s cunt again, and Jon moans. ‘I loved her,’ Tim says through gritted teeth. ‘ _I_ _loved her_. But you wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?’

‘No. No,’ Jon whispers. His thin legs are wrapped tight, vise-like, around Tim’s hips, trapping him inside Jon as much as he is trapping himself beneath him. Fitting, Jon thinks; he has gotten them into this mess, and it’s only him who can get them out. If only he had any idea where to start.

(He supposes this _is_ a start, in its own way: an atonement of sorts, a pound of flesh. He has given Tim his body because he has nothing else to offer.)

‘No one loves you,’ Tim continues. He has moved a hand between Jon’s legs now, and is rubbing roughly at Jon’s clit, making him shiver and whimper with each harsh touch. ‘We’re all sick of you, of your paranoia and your mind games and your stupid _innocent_ act. You’ve ruined our lives. All of them. We’d be better off if you were dead. I wish you were,’ he adds with sudden bitterness. ‘I wish it was you instead of her. Instead of—’

He can’t say her name. Instead he growls, and takes a fistful of Jon’s hair, and pulls until Jon yelps. Jon is sobbing now, begging wordlessly, and he knows he is going to come like this, he is going to come apart under Tim’s furious touch, and he knows that he deserves it. ‘I wish I was dead,’ Jon whispers, or perhaps he only says it inside his head. ‘Please, please, Tim, let me, let me, I want to be gone, I want to be, please, Tim, please, I’m—’

He shakes apart with a long, keening cry. His orgasm is still tearing through him, slow, brutal waves, when Tim hisses a final harsh curse low in his throat and spills himself inside of Jon. His hand has not stopped moving on Jon’s clit; it’s too much, it’s too much, Jon writhes and cries out and tries to wriggle away, but Tim is relentless. He wrings a second orgasm from him—a short burst, painful, joyless—before Jon clutches at his wrist and begs him, ‘Stop.’

For the first time, Tim looks him in the eyes. His face is reddened, his eyes are hazy; he seems not to see Jon, not at first, and then all at once he does. Tim blinks. His long lashes are wet. ‘Jon,’ he says hoarsely. ‘Jon.’

‘Tim,’ Jon whispers. They stare at each other for a long, long moment. Jon swallows back more tears. Slowly, mechanically, Tim pulls out of him, and Jon lies back. His cunt is smarting. He closes his eyes. _We used to be friends,_ he thinks. _For a long time, we were friends._

‘I didn’t mean it,’ says Tim, after a long moment.

‘Didn’t you?’

Tim is silent.

‘Tim,’ says Jon. Tim does not look at him. Again, more urgently: ‘Tim.’

Tim turns, and his gaze is blank. Jon reaches for him. Tim makes a sound like the air has been punched out of him. He wraps his arms around Jon and Jon feels like he is going to fall apart, like every one of his bones has become a bird and they are trembling, about to fly away.

He is crying again—or still? Did he ever stop?—and he can’t breathe, his chest is heaving. He gasps for air and his tears are wet on Tim’s skin and Jon is saying _sorry, sorry, I’m so sorry, it’s all my fault, I’m sorry._

‘Yeah,’ Tim says into his hair, ‘yeah, it is,’ and that is all there is to say.

After a long time Jon’s tears cease. He is exhausted, wrung-out; he feels numb. It is immensely preferable to feeling anything else. He moves to extract himself from Tim’s arms—his tears are salty, sticky on their skin—but Tim holds him there. Cautiously Jon relaxes. Tim speaks above him, to the ceiling:

‘It’s all so fucked-up,’ he says. ‘I just—Fuck, Jon. I want it all to stop. And I know _this_ —' he gestures between the two of them—‘I know this didn’t do anything, doesn’t _fix_ anything, but I just—I needed to—’

‘I know,’ says Jon bleakly. ‘I know.’

There is another silence. After a long time, Jon says, ‘I should go.’

Tim hums: Jon can feel it. ‘You don’t have to,’ he says, so quietly Jon thinks he’s misheard.

‘I—What?’

‘You could stay,’ Tim says, still speaking to the ceiling, not to him.

‘I think…I don’t think that’s a good idea,’ Jon says.

‘No,’ Tim murmurs. ‘No.’

He releases his grasp, and Jon moves silently out of his arms. He finds his clothes on the floor and dresses without bothering to clean himself up. He can feel Tim’s come inside him, drying on his thighs; it makes his skin crawl. He deserves it.

Tim hasn’t moved. He is lying on his back, watching Jon, and for a moment it seems he will say something, will call him back; but then this moment passes. Jon is dressed again. He hovers at the bedroom door. They did not turn the lights on, and now the room is dark; a moonless night.

‘I’m off, then,’ says Jon, quietly. He feels the need to say it again: ‘I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Tim. I don’t—I don’t expect you to forgive me—but I hope you believe me, at least.’

There is another long, long silence, so long that Jon considers leaving, slipping out before anything more can be said. But then, Tim’s voice from the bed:

‘I do. I do believe you. That’s all I can say right now.’

‘That’s enough,’ Jon says. They both know he is lying.

He goes then, and closes the door behind him.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> Title from [Youth](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2QT5eGHCJdE) by Daughter. Thank you to the Twitter crowd for enabling me, as usual, and thanks most of all to [besselfcn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/besselfcn) for describing the S3 Jontim dynamic as 'I-wish-I-hated-you sex.' (OOF.) Follow me [here](https://twitter.com/saintmontague)!


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